


in you the wars and the flights accumulated

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s05e03 Broken Ties, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-26
Updated: 2008-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jennifer fusses over him for five full days once he's woken in his right mind, and that's almost five days longer than Ronon can stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in you the wars and the flights accumulated

**Author's Note:**

> Episode coda for 5.03, 'Broken Ties.' Thanks to [Cate](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com) for betaing.

Jennifer fusses over him for five full days once he's woken in his right mind, and that's almost five days longer than Ronon can stand. She's a good doctor to have around in an emergency, has spent enough time up to her elbows in blood and bone for Ronon to know that she's got experience, has brought enough of his new-won family back from the brink of death for him to respect her as a medic. He's grateful for the skills that saved him, but an easy bedside manner isn't one of her strong points, and her clumsy half-questions and the wary glances she shoots at the sword that stays at his bedside are more than enough to set on edge nerves still prickling from the enzyme.

Soon as the IV's out, he's gone from the infirmary, still in his white scrubs and carrying at his side the sword Tyre had carried with pride for so long. Jennifer calls after him as he goes—reminds him to take his painkillers, to rest, to come back if he needs anything—but Ronon doesn't look back. He hesitates when he reaches one of the transporters: he doesn't want the four, close walls of his quarters around him just now, and the thoughts of having to face a mess hall full of people makes his stomach churn. He selects one of the piers instead, calls up an uninhabited place on the sunset side of the city, and when the transporter doors open again, Ronon's in the open air and so far beyond the noise of the city that the breeze and the boom of the waves seem overly loud in his ears.

He sits down, rolls his scrubs up around his knees, rests his sword on his lap, and lets the waves lap around his ankles; the water's just cold enough to make his toes tingle. Balanced here right at the edge of Atlantis, Ronon can look back up at the towers, their dark lines sharp against the watercolour wash of the evening sky; the movements of the city on the ocean are muffled when you're at the heart of it, but out here Ronon can feel the myriad tiny ways Atlantis is always working to keep them afloat. It's a delicate thing, this shifting to keep ahead of the tides, and Ronon knows he could have been the means of ending it—that he could have brought Sateda's ruin to the halls of Atlantis, and rejoiced as family's blood turned the seas around Atlantis red.

He's dimly aware that his hands on Tyre's sword are shaking, but Ronon doesn't realise that tears are running down his cheeks until Sheppard sits down next to him and holds out a somewhat grubby handkerchief. Ronon looks first at the piece of cloth, then at Sheppard, and Sheppard shrugs and stuffs it back into his pocket.

There's silence for a moment, then Sheppard clears his throat and offers, "It's Taquito Tuesday again, if you're hungry."

Ronon rests his hands against the smooth-polished stone of the pier and lets his head hang forward. "Teyla send you out here?"

"Nah, Rodney. He's eaten fifteen of them, the spicy ones with the _bluta_ meat? Wants to see if you can beat his record."

Ronon shoots him a sideways glance through the fall of his hair, sees Sheppard blow out an unhappy breath and roll his eyes. "Fine, okay, Teyla made me. But I... I just wanted to make sure you were, you know..."

"'m fine," Ronon offers, and is unsurprised when Sheppard doesn't seem to buy it.

Scratching at the pointed tip of one ear, Sheppard makes a point of not looking at him while he tells him that Jennifer had also browbeat him into reminding Ronon that he's been prescribed painkillers and he's expected to use them.

"Doesn't hurt," Ronon mumbles, though the ache in his chest is so strong that it feels like he's broken all his ribs at once, has made every breath a torment since he woke up to the sound of McKay's voice.

"Now that's bullshit," Sheppard says, sharp enough to make Ronon look up, and the expression on Sheppard's face is grim enough to hold Ronon's gaze, stop any reply he might have made. "I didn't have to put up with as much as you did, Todd wasn't trying for the same effect, but it was..." He shifts his weight around a little, looks back out over the sea, before he looks back at Ronon. "The doc tells me the hormones are different, the... the methods."

All the bones in Ronon's face ache from the effort it takes to not remember; to lock his jaw tight against the shadow-pain of what it had been like to die, over and over and over, with a Wraith's mind battering against all his defences. His life hadn't been given back to him as a reward for aid given—it had been returned to show him all the ways his people could have suffered before they died, all the needless pain they had endured for having the audacity to defy the Wraith, and Ronon knows the image of his sisters dying by fire and feeding and flaying will stay with him until the last breath rattles out of his lungs. "Maybe."

Sheppard huffs out a breath, sounding for all the world like McKay when someone else has made off with the last muffin, and folds his arms. "Still hurts, though."

Ronon considers his words for a moment, swinging his feet back and forth in the water, then remembers that this is Sheppard. If there's anyone he can't lie to about this, it's him. "Yeah."

"It'll get better," Sheppard says, and Ronon is sure he's telling the truth—Sheppard only ever sounds that awkward when he's revealing something that's honest and close to the marrow of his bones. And part of Ronon does feel better; he can rise from his bed now, heft the weight of a weapon in his hands, speak with a throat no longer raw from screaming.

But Ronon had done what Sheppard hadn't: he'd betrayed his team, his family, and even when they'd come for him, he'd begged Sheppard to kill him rather than live another moment feeling his veins burn up with each beat of his heart and know that there was no more enzyme to take the pain away. Ronon had wanted to die, had been ready to cede his whole body and his self to the death the Wraith had wanted for him, and maybe that was the worst thing of all—that he'd asked Sheppard to help him give up. "It doesn't—" Ronon pauses and licks lips that are dry from the clean, salt air. "I asked you to kill me."

"Yeah." Sheppard's voice is gentle. "Wouldn't do it."

"Would've killed you. Back on the ship."

Sheppard squints at him for a moment, then points at the sword lying in Ronon's lap. "You got a weapon. Planning on cutting on me right now?"

"No," Ronon says.

"Planning on sneaking into my room tonight and murdering me in my sleep? Thinking of turning that sword on Rodney, or Teyla, or Torren?"

Ronon stares at him.

Sheppard shrugs. "Wasn't you on that ship, buddy."

He says it like it's simple, and that friendship, that faith is almost worse to bear than his own betrayal. Ronon closes his eyes tight against it for a long moment, wondering if he can accept the gift Sheppard's bestowed on him with as much plain solemnity as he'd turned over Tyre's sword. Sheppard accepts the tight hug Ronon gives him with what is, for Sheppard, remarkably good grace.

"Yeah, yeah," Sheppard says when Ronon lets him go with one final slap on the back and allows him to stand; his cheeks are flushed pink. "You coming back in?"

Ronon considers for a bit. It's been a while since he's eaten, longer since he's had anything but bland, dry infirmary food served up by quiet nurses. "Rodney had fifteen?"

Sheppard nods, sticks his hands in his pocket. "I think you can take him."

"Can try my best," Ronon says, grunting a little as he stands back up and rolls his pants back down to cover damp and chilly calves.

Sheppard claps him on the shoulder in a friendly, easy way, as matter-of-fact as if they'd been discussing nothing of more importance than the weather on a mild autumn day, and they walk back towards the transporter side by side. Ronon's breathing easier than he had before, with Sheppard slouching along beside him, deceptively-casual; and if he's not quite as he was, if all Ronon's old certainties have been shaken by the same force that sapped the strength from his limbs and left him howling on an infirmary cot like a child, he has counterweights to keep him balanced, keep him standing: Sheppard and Teyla and Rodney; the bright, shining presence of a city that's surviving still; the weight of an old friend's courage, passed on for him to keep.


End file.
